


Handfast

by Merit



Category: Craft Sequence - Max Gladstone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-29 00:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21146060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/pseuds/Merit
Summary: Once upon a time, Seril was a girlish moon-child, laughing and dancing across the sky.





	Handfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadaras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadaras/gifts).

Once upon a time, she was a girlish moon-child, laughing and dancing across the sky. Unnamed, as a million gods were, but bright in the night sky. This was a time before she knew of the counting ways of men, when the women presented their blood days as an offering to her.

The shades of her smile marking their lives, mirrored by the swelling curve of their bodies, the sharp cry of new blood. The shape of memories were grey shadows, wisps that vanished before her form solidified. She was a second set of hands, fingers blood slick. She was a girl, she was a woman, and she was neither.

There were more of them, gods and goddesses, then. Before she grew so grand that the sky itself was hers. Then the sky teemed with other gods, scattered among the stars. In the forests and fields, in rivers and creeks, in the camp fires and a child's first breath, the gods were overwhelming.

And they were jealous and small and waged petty wars. Blood was repaid with even more blood. She watched from the night sky, in the arc of a waterfall, among the stone boulders. An idea formed in her head. Or perhaps it was a prayer.

When they whispered prayers to her, dark heads and bright eyes bowed under the bare sweep of the sky, unmarred by cloud, she answered as she could. Soothing cuts, knives returning to hands, children walking out of the underbrush, dirty but found. 

One of them, the name lost, the face lost, looked up. Seril, because she felt her name around the curve of her mouth, met her eyes. Seril smiled, the laughter dying in her throat, as she reached out, silvery fingers clasping a young girl’s hand.

The girl was her first priestess. 

She knew of days, then. When the moon faded from the sky, stars stilling, darkness leached from her tall forests and her sloe-eyed people, the sun rose. And he rose with the sun.

They waged war, Kos and Seril, and their dark haired people. During the night, her warriors launched attacks on villages, blood gleaming darkly on the loam. Her might and power was called upon, a spear in her hand, the cries of her worshippers song to her ears. As they left, water crashed over the banks of a still creek. Seril gleaned bright.

At the sun rose, cooking fires flared, burning hands and faces, scorching eyebrows. During the day, when the piercing, searing sun drove away night and moon, his people laid waste to her sleeping warriors. Their blood soaked the earth, the grief and prayers slicing at her.

The battles continued for many moons, smaller gods joining forces, falling away.

But Seril did not die. Some, whispered like a promise that was a noose around her neck, said she could not die. Power and strength crystalized like an unseen armor.

But then her people, his people, met and agreed to a truce. The meetings were held at dusk and dawn, when Seril and Kos, ghosts of their true selves at full power, waxing and waning, hovered at the edges of rough-hewn tables. The deal was sealed with blood.

It was night when they gathered, under the bright and watchful glare of the moon. Torches of fire flared in the dark night, red as the blood that had been spilled.

And so, Kos and Seril agreed to a truce. He had the day, and she the night, and she secretly felt she had far the better deal.

The next day, the ground was struck for a new village and both gods puzzled over what to name it. Names had meaning, Seril felt that to her bones.

Seril towered over her people and the temples her people built towered over the trees that had once blanketed the land. There were fewer trees now, Seril recalled, her memory hazy like fog sweeping through the village that was a town and was called a city by some. They had settled on a name, Seril and Kos, between the dawn and the dusk when the sun and the moon met.

One night, when clouds darted playfully across a moon bright sky, Seril gazed up, memories scattered like mist before a strong breeze. A prayer, familiar, broke her attention. Seril gazed down, the movement ponderous. She wondered how she had ever thought herself small.

A priestess approached her. The priestess bend, supplication a familiar bent to the sway of her spine. Seril smiled fondly, a cool hand lifting her priestess to her full height. She was fond of her followers.

The priestess spoke of troubles. Of petty raids at the edge of the forest, of young ones vanishing in the night. A sword was at her hand in a moment, formed crisply for her purposes. The priestess hesitated, age and wisdom breaking the smooth line of her forehead.

She had spoken to the priests of Kos. And the in the priestess’ tongue, his name was mundane and Seril felt a cold shiver of delight. Kos’ men had fumed, because cattle had been rustled, a headman’s son wounded. Seril felt a flash of anger. Under her watchful eye, justice was delivered, harsh though it may be.

But a young priestess, her hair as yet unmarked by silver, had smiled. 

Seril paused, eyes watchful on the priestess. Perhaps that had been unmaking as merely Seril the Undying. Seril without Kos.

The priestess suggested a handfasting. And the idea could not be unlodged. Seril, tongue sticking to the top of her mouth, felt the walls shift around her. The stars above flickered. The heat of the sun that was yet to rise - dimmed.

By spring, Kos and Seril, the idea now enmeshed in their worshipper’s minds, faced each other across a fire. The fires leapt and danced as they approached, encouraged by Kos’ presence. He held out his hand, his god-flesh hot and exciting. When they jumped over the fire, the fire snaked upwards, caressing her ankles. And as their worshippers gathered, Seril felt the power within her rise. The light within her grew stronger.

And the fires flared bright in Kos’ eyes.


End file.
